8
by robspace54
Summary: Post-Series 6 story about Doc Martin and Lousia. The story starts very late in Episode 8 and contains spoilers for Series 6.
1. Chapter 1

8

by robspace54

**The characters, places and situations of ****_Doc Martin,_**** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you. Proceed at your own peril…**

_Patient was an elderly primagravida, nine months post-partum, aged 38. She is now married and has a son. She is generally in good health. Blood pressure is normal, although slightly elevated at 122/76 with a pulse of 77, but given the circumstances of the emergency admission, such findings are not unusual._

_The angiogram clearly outlined what the MRI with gadolinium contrast showed; patient has a medium-size arteriovenous malformation in the left frontal lobe, located rearward, almost at the border with the parietal lobe, and located on the motor cortex surface. The scan show the AVM may be a volume of 5 cubic millimeters, and thusly average._

_Patient suffered a broken collar bone, and numerous bruises and contusions, from an auto accident (car to pedestrian) plus a pulmonary embolism secondary to impact one month ago. Wafarin has been administered for four weeks, and patient is still on a low dosage._

If I listen carefully, I can tell that the muffled shouting from outside the room has abated, as Mr. Westmore has realized no one will be coming to let him out of the storage closet as a floor mop handle effectively blocks the handles and his exit from his makeshift prison.

If the fool had been able to properly rattle off the five types of AVMs which every vascular specialist knows are classified as _true, occult, venous, hemangioma_, and _dural _I would have not intervened. Well… perhaps.

_The patient is stable, complains of a mild to moderate headache. No confusion noted upon neurological exam, nor any seizures or their post-effects noted. Patient was oriented as to date, place, and circumstances. Husband was on hand but his assistance was not required for answering any questions._

The Versed acted well, although she vacillated from giddy to morose pre-op, which is entirely typical. When the anesthesiologist injected the IV Valium the patient quickly fell unconscious. I settled the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.

"Blood gasses are good. I checked that, she's doing fine," admonished the anesthetist and I grunted at her, which shut her up.

I took a slow measured breath. "I'll have the blade please."

The surgical nurse handed it to me and I located the subclavian artery below the right collar bone. Some surgeons prefer to use the femoral artery, but in this case I didn't want to muck about with her lower extremities given the recent history of impact trauma and deep vein thrombosis.

The skin was well scrubbed and dyed the yellow-orange of the antiseptic. Her skin… was warm.

_Weight is 140 lbs, height five foot eight, grey-blue eyes, chestnut hair, slim of build. No other major medical history other than occasional anemia, well controlled for two years, and acute glaucoma four years ago. Eats a generally healthy diet, with vitamins, but is known to hanker after chocolate digestives._

I slid the blade along the skin for two centimeters and it parted easily, under tension from the underlayment of subcutaneous adipose tissue, covering the muscles of the chest wall and upper shoulder. A small amount of blood welled up and soaked the gauze pad I held in my left hand. The fluid was warm, and bright red, meaning it was well oxygenated, and also non-clotting. I stared at it for a few seconds as it flowed over the gloved ends of my thumb and forefinger. This was _her_ blood.

_Patient reported some confusion, which resolved during transport hospital but opined that it may have been due to personal stress and not a medical issue, due to personal anxiety._

Blood. Red blood. Warm red blood. The patient's blood. The sight of it reminded me the patient was someone's friendd, daughter, wife, and mother. Blood… without it we'd all be dead, at least our brains would be in less than four minutes, or least suffer irreparable and irreversible brain damage. Brain damage is what this procedure will correct, or at least eliminate the possibility of a hemorrhage into the frontal lobe.

The frontal lobe , which as a major and very important component of the brain, houses tissues in which resides the capability to formulate complex reasoning and decisions, initiate and control major voluntary motor functions, and is the major seat of personality, memory, and experience. Soldiers wounded in war or persons having major brain trauma resulting in extensive damage to the frontal lobes can be said to be "changed," effectively becoming one who is less capable, less able to think, feel… I hurriedly stopped that line of thought. The blood glistened on my gloves… and I skittered away from the thought.

A former patient had suffered an AVM from a car accident, another in a fall from a ladder, three were congenital, like this one, and the seventh was… I had to think, for the blood distracted me. Yes, _that_ one, also congenital but a rupture was under way when I injected the fixative agent, the twitch was tiny, oh so tiny, then blood pressure began to fall.

Blood, oh so necessary for life shone up at me like a brilliant and setting sun. I grabbed the nurse's hand and pressed it to the gauze over the wound. "Hold that."

The bin I had placed carefully at hand, so I used it, quickly ripping off my mask to expel my stomach contents. The smell of my vomit made me break out in a cold sweat, both from the vaso-vagal response and the fear that I felt. I wiped my mouth, snapped on new gloves and went back to work.

_Patient reported no bright lights or random movements of limbs, yet did describe a moment of confusion in radiology, moments before being brought into theater. She asked me will I be alright?_

The ruptured AVM was a problem, and a major one for the intracranial hemorrhage was massive as it flowed over the dura, before penetrating the brain. I was three years into my surgical work after vascular training but it… startled me.

"Cannula."

The nurse slapped the cannula into my waiting hand and I fished it into a tiny hole I made in the vessel below her collar bone. A tiny clip applied slight pressure on the blood vessel to roughly seal the edge.

"Good. Catheter."

Here came the catheter, a full meter of it, an obscene thing to be poking into a body, anyone's body, let alone… I gulped.

"I'm in the artery," I said and pushed it forward about six inches feeling the kink at the base of the neck.

"X-ray. Let's see where we are."

The radiologist flipped the scope on after I pulled my hands away. "There, just… about." I pushed the endovascular catheter forward, seeing it slide up and over to the left side of her neck towards the head. A twist of the thing made it slightly stiffer and I saw it slide higher around the bend of the vessels. "Vitals?"

"She's doing well," the anesthetist said and batted brown eyes at me. "She's pretty."

"Shush." I pierced her eyes with mine. "I _asked_ for signs."

"BP 116 over 78, pulse 58. Sorry, Doctor."

"Mm," I grunted. "It's okay. Okay…" I pushed the catheter forward another ten centimeters. "X-ray."

_No reported instances of seizures or other sequelae, reported by patient or her husband. Since patient was struck by a car, and the AVM did not rupture at that time, it is likely a very stable and congenital structure._

My male patient with the bleed writhed as the blood coursed from the ruptured vessel, and I could see it then on the X-ray, a white layer starting to flow over the brain. "Damn."

"Blood pressure is going," I was told. "Pulse is going up, though."

That time I nudged the catheter forward with a will, and someone cried out.

"It's stopped! You plugged it with the instrument! How did you do that?"

I shook sweat from my eyes. "Give me more CA. NOW!"

Cyanoacrylate was now the chosen surgical glue; hard to believe that at one time they actually injected small particles of rubber or foam into these vessels. Now _N_-butyl cyanoacrylate was the chosen and approved sealant, at least for typical AVMs like this one.

The man on the table shuddered as the CA (I hate to call it super-glue), the cyanoacrylate, flowed into the vessel, but then he started to pink up and stopped moving, his breathing becoming smooth and slow.

"Well he's back," said the nurse and touched my elbow. "Golden hands, Mr. Ellingham."

The student on my other side was shaking his head. "Marvelous work."

"Shut it!" I said to them. "Let's give that a few seconds to catalyze, then we'll get this blasted catheter out and see… if it holds."

_Patient told me I had a huge head – full as the moon. Versed makes one say silly things. She also prattled on about beaches and flip-flops._

"Will he be alright, Doctor?" his wife asked me. Her tearful eyes looked at me across his swaddled body in recovery.

"There was a slight bleed, just as I injected the sealant, the uhm, super-glue, into the vessel. It must have just been about to burst."

"Oh my God!" she screamed and her cry echoed down the ward. "Will he be alright?" she grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

I had performed the operation seven times before with only one mishap, and the patient recovered, fortunately. A review of his radiology showed the AVM was started to bulge even before I entered the theater, so I was exonerated, even applauded for my quick work in jamming the catheter in just the right spot. I dared not tell them it was an act of desperation, _that tiny nudge_ of the catheter.

"You should have seen it!" I yelled at the head of radiology, who withered under my ire. "This man could have died, or worse!"

He shook his head at me. "Ellingham, look…"

"NO! YOU look! By not reporting that _tiny bulge_ just _there_," I stabbed at the computer screen, where the offending vessel took up five pixels, "YOU did not prepare ME with all the facts!"

"I… we'll do better next time," he offered weakly.

I stalked towards the door. "You are a fool Perkins, for there might not be a next time, for a patient!"

_Patient is well perfused and unresponsive during the procedure, although some do report a twilight sleep effect of memories and sounds._

"There," I said softly, just as I reached the target in the patient's brain.

The nurse told me, "You push that thing in there like you own that blood vessel, Doctor. Calm and steady. Never seen Mr. Westmore like that."

"Mm. Give me the CA."

The nurse handed me the tube with the saline which would push the sealant into the vessel. "Ready."

"Vitals?"

"Steady as she goes. BP holding at 116 over 76, pulse at 56. Valium is holding her well. Not a care in the world."

I stared at the screen. "Perfusion?"

The anesthetist looked at the readout. "Pee oh two is excellent."

_Patient said that she needed a break. A break from me, from…us. But she did have a care, with me, and how I was acting rubbish – silent, remote, even more distant and isolated than usual. _

_I told her minutes ago that I needed her help. She laughed at me saying well we are both in trouble if I needed her help to perform an operation!_

_Truth be told, I needed far more than her help. I needed… and she did have a care. She cared about James and herself, and, and…_

I tried to swallow but my mouth had gone dry. I've performed this operation seven times, and this was number 8. No, not _this_, Ellingham! SHE was number eight! Louisa is number eight!

I sighed.

"Doctor?" the nurse was staring at me.

I glanced at her. "I'm fine. Let's seal this. X-ray."

The screen showed the catheter was just where I had left it, a fraction of a millimeter from the AVM.

"Good," I said. I had told her this was like filling a tooth, only in the brain.

Brain – the patient's brain – _Louisa's_ brain. God! A filling in her brain! Damn me for telling her that in the mad dash to hospital! What sort of husband was I to say that to her!

At the moment I was not her husband, _just_ her doctor, and I would do _everything_ in my power to make her medically fit. As for the husband part, well, that needs work.

I slowed down my thinking, my breathing, and remembered Milligan's CDs. "You are in control, in theater. All is well. Just do what you know how to do," the CDs would say and I played them over and over. This was no different – no different; but it was.

There was no other surgeon in hospital who would or could do this properly, so here I was not that _baby_ Westmore that I had locked in the hall closet. I had sworn an oath to tend the sick, to heal where able, to counsel those in need…

I depressed the plunger on the syringe and the saline in the reservoir pushed the tiny bit of cyanoacrylate liquid sealant into the tube, flowing towards her body.

Her body was warm and the skin smooth and soft and I cradled her desperately as I lifted her from the Police Rover into the wheelchair. Her hair was brushed across my face and I sensed the smell of her shampoo, the scent she wore - Kenzo Flower - the deodorant under her arms… and her – _her_.

Penhale had told me, as they wheeled Louisa into A&E, "Good luck. You go and do what you do best, doc."

I looked at Penhale in his ridiculous costume. "Take James to Ruth, she'll take care of him." Then I turned back to face him, "Thank you," I told him.

Louisa lay on the operating table under bright lights inert and still, other than her soft breathing, assisted by pure oxygen from a mask. Her vital signs were perfect, and I almost cried out as I saw the sealant move inside her body – the living body that I would do ANYTHING to save – to have and hold to… to cherish… and to love.

"Good…" I muttered, "good…"

A quick X-ray showed the radio-opaque bolus of sealant flowing towards the brain where her AVM waited like a lover to accept it.

"About there," the radiologist said. He stepped on the pedal once more and the low-level X-ray showed the CA flowing into the AVM.

I was holding still, afraid to move or breathe, yet blinking as I watched the screen.

"That's great," said the radiologist. "Smooth as silk." The man's eyes smiled at me over his mask. "Good work, Ellingham."

I shook myself from my trance. "Filled? Completely? Let me see." I brushed the nurse aside and I examined the screen where the image was frozen. Yes, it was as he said; the tiny malformation was completely filled with surgical sealant. Oh Louisa… I thought, oh my God.

"_Textbook_," said the man. "Fine work."

"Uh, thank you," I told him and he was startled by my words.

"She's your wife, I hear?"

"Yes," I answered softly, "and my patient."

"Wow. Tough moment I bet."

I nodded. "Yes. Now let's get this claptrap withdrawn and her stitched up."

Only later in the washroom, in the privacy of a toilet stall, did I allow myself to shed tears, for any number of reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

Louisa was still asleep in the post-op ward and her vital signs were stable and perfect given I'd just fished tubing inside her brain. I looked at the screen and watched the rhythm of her heart, the QRST waveform a textbook testament to her excellent cardiac health.

A nurse tucked the blanket more firmly about her motionless body. "She's doing fine, doctor."

"Yes," I said and brushed a strand of hair from her slack face. "She, uhm, snores."

The nurse looked at the chart, saying, "This isn't Mr. Westmore's writing."

"It's mine."

"She's… your wife?"

"Yes," I replied. "Please…" the word stuck in my throat, "Ahm, if you might…"

She nodded encouragingly. "I will. I'll take good care of her."

I sighed. "Thank you."

The nurse looked up at me. "I thought Mr. Westmore was doing her op?"

God. "No, he was… occupied. I was available." That reminded me that that fool Westmore needed looking after. "I'll be changing then I'll be writing my notes. Page me, if… something changes." My eyes were pricking with wetness. I looked down and my hands were shaking.

The woman looked up at me. "I think you need some time alone, Doctor."

"Yes." I went into the locker room, found no one inside and ducked into a toilet stall. I pushed the door closed behind me and stood still, while hot wet tears trickled down my face. I don't know how long I stood like that, tears spattering onto my green scrubs. It all came crashing down on me, Louisa, James, my mother, the race to the airport, barging onto the plane, rescuing Louisa, carrying her out of Penhale's Rover, dealing with Westmore, and then the operation - which went well. It went well – at least _something_ had gone well today.

I had literally saved her, performed the operation, and the X-ray did show signs the AVM was starting to bulge; but she had survived - she had done more than just survived. I felt the yawning chasm in front of me and with a will forced myself back from the edge. I wiped my eyes and face and said aloud, "Oh, Louisa."

Someone opened the locker room door so I flushed the toilet to cover the sounds of my crying. Now that the operation was finished I ought to be relieved but I felt wound tight as a mainspring.

In theater I told her that I needed her help and I meant it. The words of my aunt came to me and I choked at the real task facing me. I must change, have to.

I changed back into my suit and let Westmore out of the cleaning closet. He looked at me sheepishly. "Go review," I said. "If you were on top of your game…"

He nodded grimly. "You did it? You _actually_…"

"The patient, Mrs. Ellingham, is fine. The AVM was starting to distend, I believe."

He whistled softly, a skill I had never mastered. "Well, best that _you_ did the procedure."

I didn't want his thanks or approval. "Uhm, listen, I was wrong to - put you in there." I knew what the inside of a closet looked like and it was no fun.

He looked around. "You're sorry - _you're_ saying to me that you're _sorry_? The great Golden Hand Ellingham is _apologizing_, to _me_?" He shook his head.

"I… was upset and when you hesitated - _time_ was of the essence - and there was not a moment to argue."

"Yeah, I see that. You know I'm nervous as a cat doing those things."

I sighed. "Well." I didn't tell him I had vomited during the procedure. "I should have had you assisting - or rather _I_ should have assisted _you_."

The sandy-haired man smiled. "That's what _really_ put me off. I've read your précis on the operation and I almost wet myself when you walked in wearing scrubs."

I looked away. "I'd appreciate it, if you… not…" I waved a hand.

"Oh right. Sure. Mum's the word. Ah, mind if I check on the patient in post-op?"

I nodded. "I used a subclavian approach, ensure that the stitches aren't seeping."

"Righto. Dr. Ellingham, I do apologize."

This was awkward. "I'll be making a phone call. Get me immediately if there is an issue, if you would."

He left apparently relieved it was all over and I was too. But it _wasn't_ over, merely the beginning.

Louisa was still sleep from the Versed and IV Valium, so I found an empty desk and called Ruth. Her mobile rang three times before she answered and I heard James fussing in the background.

"Hello?" her voice quavered.

"Ruth, it's me."

"How's Louisa? Penhale was practically in tears as he described you taking her off the plane and the dash to the airport."

"She's fine - came through it perfectly. Her AVM may have been about to rupture."

"God. But they fixed it."

"No. I fixed it. I did the procedure."

I heard James stop crying as a female voice crooned to him. "Who's that?"

"Morwenna. She seems to be getting the hang of things with James. I brought Al up to your surgery and sealed his elbow with super-glue and tape. Been a long time since I've done any real doctoring. Hope you don't mind I was mucking around in your cabinets."

"No, that's fine. Louisa ought to be discharged later today. It might be around seven or so."

"That the doc?" I heard Al ask her. "Tell him his car is out of the race, but we can get somebody to pick him up. Just say when, right?"

"Martin, I'll have Al come and get you. He can use my car." Ruth said. "Not to worry. The garage towed your car off the street."

I hadn't thought of that as I'd wrecked my Lexus. "Good."

"Martin? So Louisa's fine now but how are _you_?" Ruth bored in. "You were in quite a state when you came to see me this afternoon."

I closed my eyes against the bright overhead lights. "We'll talk about that later." I looked at the wall clock. "Could you have Al come to hospital around seven? Now must go; I have to check on Louisa."

Ruth sighed. "I must say that for the sleepy little village that Portwenn is, there is always some excitement. Give the girl my love, Martin; and take some for yourself." She hung up.

Louisa was starting to stir, but she was still deep in the arms of Morpheus, the god of sleep, but there was an odd buzz coming from near the foot of the bed. "What the?" Inside the bag that held her clothing there was a tinny buzzing noise.

I rooted around and found her phone vibrating and blinking inside her leather handbag. I flipped it open and the telltale said five voicemails. I pushed the button and was greeted with a series of messages from her mum, Eleanor. "God."

I held the phone in my hand like a viper, and then pressed the callback button. It rang twice and was answered.

"Lou-Lou? Where are you? I've been waiting at the airport and gave up!" her screechy voice sounded. "And it's quite a way to the airport and back and petrol down here costs an arm and a bloody leg!"

In my mind's eyes I could see her blue-eyed and ginger-haired countenance mouthing at the phone. "This is Martin," I began.

"Where's Louisa? She missed the plane! And what the hell have you been doing up there, Martin? What have done to my little girl? Get her on the phone!"

"Eleanor… I…"

"And she's not been happy! Otherwise, why would she come down here?" she yelled into my ear. "I mean I'll be very glad to see her and my grandbaby of course, but listen you big git, you might be a dab hand with surgery and all the doctorin' but I think when it comes to treating people like – well, _people_ - you haven't a bloody clue!" She paused for a breath so I jumped in.

"Eleanor, Louisa was not on the plane as she required emergency surgery. It went well and she is fine."

"Oh my God! Is she alright? What happened? Was it an accident?"

"No." I took a slow breath. "Eleanor, Louisa had a malformation of blood vessels in her brain. A procedure was carried out to repair those vessels, before they might rupture and cause a bleed."

"They cut her head open?" She started to gasp and gulp and I heard her start to wail.

"No, nothing like that! The, uhm, the surgeon threads a small tube into the artery and fills it with a surgical sealant. It's rather like superglue. The cranium, the skull, is not opened."

"How is she? I'll get there as quick as I can! Just let me grab by case and I'll be there on the first plane!"

"Louisa is _fine_, her vitals are strong, and she is expected to make a complete recovery."

I heard a sniffle over the phone. "My little girl. Oh my God! You never know, do you? You never know."

"She will make a _complete_ recovery. Eleanor, Louisa is quite alright. Have no fear about that."

"If she's so bloody fine then why the hell was she leaving you?" She yelled and snapped the phone off with a noise that hurt.

I lowered Louisa's mobile, turned the power off and slipped it into my coat pocket and found a fuzzy object buried there.


	3. Chapter 3

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

The green googly-eyed finger puppet stared at me as I held it in my hand. I presumed it was supposed to be a frog.

Louisa would tease James with it, the thing stuck on two of her fingers and she'd pretend it would hop about his face, on his tummy, around his feet, across the table making croaking noises, playing that it was actual frog. He would giggle and grab at it, while she'd cunningly let him catch it most times, then pull it away, and do it all over. James would grab it and in his infantile way try to imitate her actions and noises. Later he might hold it to his face and try to play the game with her.

Play; Louisa was good at that, while I was rubbish. All I cared about was my surgery, medicine, repairing clocks, and despite having married Louisa and fathered a child on her, not in that order, I was just as hidebound and stand-offish as ever. My… my _descent_ was the way I thought about it, stemmed from no illness of body, but the fact that I didn't understand people, how the world works, or my place in it.

I had been mistreated at home, bullied at school, and ignored as much as possible by college mates and co-workers. Why was that?

Morwenna had barged in on me as I was taking an ECG on myself, and to her credit, she didn't pry, just stood there for a few seconds and left. Yet she did see me, for her eyes had grown wide in surprise if not alarm. Afterwards she didn't snoop, much as Pauline would have done, although she did ask me if everything was okay. Morwenna certainly respected my privacy, such as it was.

I stared at the green fabric thing in my hand, recalling James trying to play the frog game with his mother. Had I ever played a game with James? Did reading medical journals to the child count?

Aunt Joan and Uncle Phil knew how to play with me when I was a boy and visited their farm on school holidays until I was eleven. Phil liked to carve, not that as a farmer he had a lot of free time, but in the evening when the football was on, and he'd had a small cider with dinner, he'd pull out a gnarled piece of driftwood and go at it with careful strokes of his pocketknife.

"Lookie, here, Martin," he'd say, holding up the wooden blob. "What do you see in there?"

"Uncle Phil, it's a piece of wood," I'd answer, factual as always.

"Nope, it's a seagull!" he'd cackle and with careful and slow strokes of his sharp knife, an old worn-out gouge, and a piece of sandpaper, he'd turn it into a seagull. It might take a few nights or two weeks and there it would be – a seagull. He might carve a sheep, or a dolphin, or an intertwined root-like thing that would stand on three legs.

Each and every time I could not see the shape in the wood, for try as I might it was only wood.

He'd cackle and have me guess and I always failed. But Phil's imagination never waned. "Look here, Martin, there's beauty all around us. You just have to see it."

When Phil passed, Joan buried him with his knife in his hand and a block of wood. "Hobbies for his journey," she told me the day of the funeral. "You ever find that seagull, Marty?"

The cloth frog stared at me in silent reproach. What might I teach James? How to repair clocks? How to yell at my patients? How to repair… I had to gulp… a tortured blood vessel in his mother's brain?

Phil taught me how to sharpen a knife, get it really sharp - with slow and careful strokes with whetstone, oil, and emery paper. "Take care of your tools, Martin," Phil would tell me, "and they'll take care of you."

My tools were my brain, knowledge, intellect, and skilled fingers to heal, but they were all woefully inadequate for most of reality.

Phil used tools all the time in those past days, to fix the tractor or plow, nail up a falling down fence, keep the old farm going, or solder a leaky water pipe o the sheep tank. He had so many hard-won skills that my father never had, for he was a surgeon both in the Royal Navy and out.

So what did my father teach me? The business end of a belt usually, not to speak unless spoken to, and act invisible when he and mum fought.

One of my elderly patients was grousing about her parents, now dust in some forgotten churchyard, while I examined her worn-out knees, ravaged by age and arthritis.

"They was both crap parents, Doc!" she yelled for she was quite deaf. "Crap parents the both of 'em! But for my Eddie who took me away from there when I were fourteen, I'd never'a done anything at all! The only thing me mum taught me was how to scrub floors and cook and my dad taught me to stay the 'ell away from him when he was in the drink!" Then the old gal sighed. "But my Eddie, ah, he was a sweet man. He taught me how to laugh! We had no money, you know, barely keeping house on the little he brung home from the quarry and the laundry I took in." Then she smiled. "But we did play," she laughed, "Oh we did play."

I'd bring those carvings home with me, secreted in my suitcase. I wanted them to stay hidden as something special just for me. I'd go off to school and come home for a short stay to find my room swept clean of personality once again, those wonderful carvings sent to the dustbin. The last trip to the farm when Phil was still alive he carved a wonderful dog and he was quite hurt when I refused to take it.

"Something wrong then Martin?" he asked.

"I… it'll get lost at school," I had lied to him. "You keep it." When Joan died I looked for that carving in her house, but it was gone.

I rubbed my fingers over the fuzzy frog, and then slipped it onto my index finger, waggling it. The frog didn't speak only stared at me. "What does the frog say?" I whispered.

An aide breezed past me in post-op and chuckled. "Playing Dr. Ellingham?"

I froze but quickly stuffed the toy into my pocket. "My son's."

She smiled. "My little one has a stuffed cow that he dearly loves. He won't go to sleep unless I play the 'cow goes moo' game with him. He's three, is my Timmy. How old is your boy?"

"James is ten months old. My wife…" I cleared my throat, "it's a game she and James play."

"How is the patient?" she butted in. "Still asleep? Poor dear had a hard day."

Louisa snored at my side and I instinctively reached out and took her hand.

The aide said, "Still coming out of it."

"Yes."

Louisa knew how to play, with James and with me, although I turned her away when she tried to get too close. Roger Fenn told me I was a miserable bugger when I told him of my vile parents. That much was true and the way things had gone with Louisa and I these past months only confirmed it. The return of my haemophobia, lack of sleep, no appetite for food, or other pleasures of the flesh, was crushing.

Depressed, miserable, and desperate I had done a lot to drive Louisa and James away by inaction, being sullen and quiet.

I rubbed Louisa's hand. "Oh Louisa, I need _you_ to teach _me_," came quietly out of my mouth.

The aide patted my shoulder. "We all need to learn, you know."


	4. Chapter 4

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

The nurse's comment made me think of Roger Fenn. Roger was teaching vocal lessons to Louisa's secretary Maureen Tacey and going beyond student and teacher their relationship went a lot further, so far that they became lovers and then parents. Maureen was 50 when she got pregnant and Roger was 54. Roger just smiled and said that he had been many things in life. "A factory worker to a band leader and rock singer and later a teacher," he'd laughed, as he told me. "I'll just have to learn to be a father! A real one! Not the rubbish I was the first time!" Then he burst out laughing, but that was Roger through and through.

Learn - learn how to be a father? That question flitted through my head. What school can one go to learn that?

A nurse came over and checked Louisa's blood pressure. "120 over 80 Mr. Ellingham," she reported. "She's doing fine. What say you go get a coffee?" the woman suggested.

"I don't drink hospital coffee," I answered trying to keep an edge from my voice. "I prefer espresso."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you'll find something to eat. Go on, you look tired." She waved me away as one might a pesky fly. "Give yourself a break. What say you go to the canteen?"

I disliked people telling me what I looked like or what they thought I was feeling, but I stood and touched Louisa's forehead. "I'll be in the canteen, just for ten minutes."

I left the post-op area and skirting the busy hallway leading to A&E came to the hospital canteen.

"Sir? You want lunch? I think there are still a few items left," a worker told me at the door. "Almost done for midday."

I went to the tea carafe and drew a mug, then surveyed the menu items. Chicken cacciatore, beef and veg pasties, steak pie with chips and peas, and fish and chips, I turned my nose up at them all. Finally I ladled myself a bowl of nondescript soup, selected a hard roll, and added a green salad.

The cashier lazily cracked her gum and rang it up. "Eight twenty."

I paid with my card and stepped towards the small eating area, half of which was closed for cleaning. I sat down at a table for two by the wall, as far away from others as I could get, but the tables were pushed together while they cleaned the floor near to.

I was starting on my soup when a short, skinny man with a harried look about him came in propelling a small boy in a push chair and half dragging a young female child. The girl was strangling a doll and I could only imagine the many viruses and bacteria that must be populating its tatty surface as she rubbed her face against it.

The man looked around then bored in on the only empty table, which was next to me. I inwardly groaned as he maneuvered his charges over and plopped himself down by my side.

"Now, Billy, let's get some grub in ya'. Monica can you just sit across? Great." The man said to the children and glanced my way. "Hello."

I nodded and studied my soup.

"Hi," the little girl said to me. "You a doctor?"

I nodded and went back to eating, wishing only to be left alone.

"Pretty fancy suit," she said then slipped out of her chair and presented the doll to me. "This is Marie."

"Oh, Monica don't go bothering the man. Now, Billy you eat up!" her father said. "Sorry mate, my daughter…"

"She's fine," I said pouring a small amount of oil and vinegar dressing on my salad, hoping it might improve the sad looking and meager portion of lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers.

The girl peered at what I was eating. "I like soup. 'Specially tomato soup - with crackers."

Her dad laughed. "Monica is a talker, she is, takes after her mum."

"What's your name?" the child asked me.

"Ellingham, erh… Martin." I inspected the child. Her dress and shoes were well laundered and the shoes polished, her dark hair was plaited into a single strand down her back.

She smiled at me and her green eyes sparkled. "I gotta friend named Marty," the girl said brightly. "He lives next door to us. He's six, but I'm only five."

"Monica, don't…" her dad said, "sorry. Now Billy come on let's get more food into you and less on your face."

The girl chattered on. "And we're here to see mummy. She's up in a room and she's resting. I got to ride the moving stair today – up and down. Mummy's been here a whole two weeks, hasn't she daddy?"

"Your wife or partner is a patient?" I asked.

The man nodded slowly. "Yeah, problem pregnancy, thirty-two weeks they think."

Monica cradled her doll. "Marie is a good name don't you think? Mummy says if the baby's a girl she might name it Marie, after gran, but if it's a boy - well she's not sure."

"Name's Stan," the father told me. "Premature rupture of membranes they say. Helluva thing. Little Monica and Billy here was perfect, wife gained forty pounds each time, planned the both of 'em. This one, a surprise, right? But life can be full of surprises."

I replied, "Yes." I concentrated on my soup which was barely edible.

The girl stood at my elbow hugging her doll. "You a daddy like my daddy?"

Her father smiled. "Like I said, she's a talker."

I dabbed my lips with the thin paper napkin. "I have a son. His name is James."

"How old is he? Is he five?" she held up her hand, fingers spread. "I'm five!"

"My son is ten months old," I told her. The child looked confused. "He's not one year old so he's a baby."

"Little 'un, eh? Billy here is just about sixteen months, ain't cha kiddo?" the man threw in.

Kiddo. What did my father call me? _Boy_ seemed to be the most common word usually with a shout.

Stan sighed and wiped his eyes. "My missus…"

"Your wife," I prodded uncharacteristically.

"Susan. She was cryin' when we came in the room. They think… well, maybe the baby won't stay in _there_ much longer. She's frettin' about it."

"Thirty-two weeks is generally an acceptable and viable gestational age, unless there is some underlying medical issue," I told him.

"Yeah, yeah, they been sayin' that. Uhm, what sorta doctor are you?" he asked while he rubbed his daughter's back. "Mummy will be home soon and you'll have a new baby brother or sister, right?"

Suddenly the food was like ashes in my mouth. What sort of doctor was I? "I am both a GP and have done surgery… I'm over in Portwenn."

"Oh yeah, yeah. Great little place quiet, secluded, smashing harbor. We live down past Padstow. You're not an OB though."

"No."

Stan wiped his face. "Tough you know. Suze has been in hospital for two weeks and was on bed rest for a month afore that. Been tough going." He tousled his little girl's hair. "But we get by, don't we?" The child giggled while he tickled her. "But just have to suck it up and keep going."

"Go with the flow," I whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"So Dr. Ellingham, you here seein' patients? Busy man I bet."

I felt something break inside, or perhaps _heal_. "My wife."

"Oh dear. Bet that's no fun at all, you a doc and _your_ wife is ailin'. Physician heal thyself, or your _wife_ right?"

I put down the soup spoon and took a deep breath, turning towards the wall. Louisa, _Louisa_… I thought, feeling much as Westmore must have as I grilled him about the types of aneurysms. Did I heal her? I filled the AVM with sealant, but what about the rest of her? Her left collar bone was still broken, but healing, her legs still bruised from the accident, and now she'd be sporting a scar below her other collar bone, courtesy of the surgery I'd performed.

"Oh sorry, mate. Didn't mean to get into your business," the man said and tried to hand me a tissue, nudging my elbow. "Need this?"

"I'm… fine," I told him and waved off the proffered tissue, although my eyes felt too wet. "I… need to eat and get back upstairs."

His daughter suddenly was hugging me, her arm across mine. "Ohhh, you're sad. My friend Marty looks just like that when he gets sad too. Don't cry," the child said.

"Now, now, Monica. Don't bother the man," her father said. "What's your wife's name?"

"Lou…isa," I told him, barely holding it together. God forbid that I open up to this total stranger, a man I've never seen before and likely never would again. Clearly he was the sort who was a habitual… how to say it? Busybody?

Stan swept his daughter into his arms. "We'll pray for you, won't we Monica?" he kissed her cheek.

The little girl nodded gravely. "Oh yes, just like we pray for mummy and the new baby."

Stan shrugged. "Look, Dr. Ellingham, I don't know nothin' about nothin', much. But when all else fails, sometime you have to let the man, or woman, upstairs, take over."

"I have found that…" I started to say but it was rubbish. The man didn't sound specious like that tosser Danny Steel throwing out _God Bless You's_ left and right with a liberal sprinkling _of Praise the Lord_. In his quiet way he sounded sincere.

"Like my granddad used to say when he was talkin' about the war, 'never turn down help from any source.'" Stan coughed. "Sometimes, you have to just do the best you can and maybe a little prayer won't hurt, right?"

I flashed back to the operating room not an hour ago. Hadn't I done my very best? And if I hadn't it wasn't for lack of trying and I hadn't needed to pray then. Looking forward to the task facing me I might _have_ to.

"I suppose, you got years and years of expertise," Stan nattered on. "Years and years. So thanks Doc."

"Have I treated your wife?" I asked.

"Nope. Never laid eyes on you until ten minutes back. Just sayin'… well, you know."

"Then why are you thanking me?"

"Just… _thanks_ for takin' care of people, right? That's all." Stan nodded gravely. "I guess some folks _never_ say it – don't thank you at all. Figure it's just your job."

I looked down at my food tray, the wilted salad with one or two bites gone, the roll untouched, and the soup barely eaten. "I need to go." I stood and lifted my tray. "Make sure that the OB staff has considered when to administer intravenous corticosteroid therapy to your wife. The drug used will mature the baby's lungs for breathing air before a premature delivery."

"What's that? A _crot-ico_?"

"It's a drug, a steroid actually, that creates _surfactant_ on the surface of the foetal alveoli…" I stopped when I saw the man's eyes start to glaze over. "Just speak to the consultant."

He nodded. "Thank you."

"It's my job," I said.

"Bye Martin," said his daughter to my retreating back. "Bye-bye!"


	5. Chapter 5

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

I paused in the corridor and slumped against the wall, shaken by the man and his daughter's reaction to me.

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. Every happy or sad thing in their lives is laid out for all to see. My heart of hearts was buried quite deep, that is if I had a heart at all. Yet Louisa must have found it once or at least got a tiny glimpse of it.

What did she see in me?

The man in the canteen clearly had a heart and he wasn't afraid to show it to his children and wife, obviously, and to me, a total stranger. How could he do that?

Staring at the cases, nearly packed on our bed this morning, I knew that this was the moment, or nearly so, of her departure. Everything wrong or right had led up to this.

I called her name through the closed bathroom door, as softly as I might, trying to get her attention.

"Yes?" she said from the other side.

My mind had gone blank. Trying to fill the wretched silence, I asked, "What time is your taxi?"

I heard her sigh. "Ten."

I tried to speak, but only a low sound came from me resembling the word _right_. My heart was trying to jump out of my chest, and I… could not speak more. I don't recall how long I stood there like a fool.

The closed door was emblematic of everything I had done wrong these last few months. The door gave me no answers or clues. It was just there.

I was as silent as a pithed frog, totally without personality, unlike the rude, forbidding, and horrid person I usually showed the world. But if I was wont to yell, why not then? And why could I not speak? Why not rattle off some medical babble claptrap about studies have shown that children do best developmentally when they have a stable two-parent household? Or that separation of their parents can make a lasting impact even if the child is too young to know it? Or… anything at all?

"Uhm," I looked at my watch, and fell back into professional mode in sheer desperation. "My first patient's here."

I heard her soft voice. "Yeah."

The door might as well have been a hundred miles of solid rock instead of the one inch pine boards it was.

The open suitcases watched me as I abandoned the unbreachable door and bent down over James. He looked up at me from the cot in wonder with his light blue-grey eyes as I brushed his cheek. He'd not remember any of this, not a bit, while I was storing it all in, so I could replay it in solitary torment after he and my wife were gone.

It was the story of life - my whole bollixed up and sterile life - being alone in myself; living inside my head - clamping down on emotions and ideas that ought to be expressed.

But… what if I asked her to stay? She'd say 'Made my mind up, Martin. A break will do us good.'

What if I demanded that she not leave? She'd only get her back up and yell at me or worse.

What if I opened the door and told her how desperately miserable I had been, that I was… oh, there was no word for it. I didn't understand it; being totally clueless.

I knew that her leaving was wrong, but I was powerless to stop her. In fact I'd played the scenario so many times and I had all the pathways mapped out and there was NO way out of the maze I was in.

There must be an answer.

I should have felt something, other than a sense of being frozen, unable to act or speak.

That was the first Rubicon today. The second was when the taxi arrived just as I had accidently injected a patient with the wrong serum. Had I done that before? Ever?

Joan's repaired clock on the mantle showed me how very late it was and I followed my angry patient into waiting where the taxi driver was taking Louisa's cases, while Morwenna stood by looking hopeful, but I ignored her, all my attention focused on Louisa as she stood holding James. She gotten quite good at juggling things with one arm and the way she had the baby propped on her hip, her right arm about him I had no fear that she was in control of the situation, while clearly I was not.

We discussed inconsequential things, and then I said I could take her to the airport.

"Well the taxi's outside and you've got surgery." She fixed me with sad eyes. Was she willing me to speak?

"Bottles," I blurted out.

"Sorry."

"The baby bottles, you rinsed out by the sink upstairs. Did you pack them?"

"No; take James." She climbed the stair and I took James outside.

I held him up so we were eye to eye. "Sorry about all this."

He smiled and I was powerless to tell him more. I didn't wish any of this to happen? That he had brought so much contentment into my life? That I loved him and his mother? And that no matter what I _always_ would?

The man in the canteen clearly had it all together - wife, children, job and home. He must have been eminently equipped to take on that assignment, while I had nothing.

When Louisa and I parted I couldn't even kiss her properly. I told her I was sorry and I meant for everything, not just missing her mouth.

The sight of the taxi driving off affected me strangely least of all. At that point it was a fait accompli, irreversible and unchangeable.

"Oh Louisa, I am sorry," I said aloud.

A custodian was mopping the floor. "You're fine, chum. Not in my way at all."

But I _was_ in the way. I was in the way of Louisa and James and I knew that things had to change – that I _had_ to change. Joan was wrong and Ruth was right.

"I didn't want you to go."

"Wot's that?" the man asked as he plied his floor mop.

The image of the closed door came back to me with me on one side and Louisa on the other. I wondered what a therapist might say about it.

The mop came near my feet so I stepped over it and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

They were preparing to move Louisa from the post-op ward to a semi-private alcove when I returned to the floor. "How's her blood pressure?" I asked.

A nurse was tucking the blanket around her body. "Normal."

I reached over took her wrist and starting taking her pulse.

"It's right up there on the screen," the nurse pointed to the monitor which was displaying her heart rate and oxygenation from the instruments on her body. "You don't need to do that."

Her skin was warm and soft and I got a faint whiff of the hand lotion she used. "Sometimes it is best to use other means," I said. "Instruments have been known to fail." Accordingly I took her pulse manually for a full minute. "Yes, it is normal."

Normal - now _that_ was a word. I lingered for a moment further, then flicked my penlight across Louisa's senseless eyes, lifting her eyelids one at a time. "Pupils are reactive, normal, and even." She slightly resisted my touch. On her face. "She's starting to come around."

The nurse nodded. "No damage then. Normal reactions."

Again _that_ word - normal.

Ruth had been factual that my response to marriage, fatherhood, and our living together were _not_ normal. I'd run out to the farm to see my aunt, and she swiftly informed me that my unsettled feelings were not due to any medical reason, which I had been trying to self-diagnose.

Ruth made me sit on the grass, which I did; one of the rare times not being concerned about grass stains on my suit. "You mean that? I must be sick."

My aunt sighed at me. "Martin, look, you are the son I never had, perish the thought, so I must ask you again. Do you love her?"

"Of course I do! You've already asked me that."

Ruth nodded. "Just making sure. So, nephew, if you love her, you say you do, and James, then why in the world have you let her run off?"

"I couldn't stop her."

"Okay. Back to it then," she sighed. "You think that you are not deserving of her love."

"I…"

"If you really love Louisa, then you _must_ change; be willing to change," Ruth said. "And if you're not willing to do that, then leave the poor girl alone."

I sat there looking at the sea, the wind whipping over the grass for a while. Thankfully Ruth didn't say anything. Finally I stood, dusting at my pants and squared my suit coat.

Ruth held out a wrinkled hand. "Help an old woman up, Martin."

I did and she patted my arm. "What are you going to do?"

I ducked my head. "I… uhm, I'm not sure."

"Martin, you need to be very sure, _very_ sure. But whatever you do, please, please, make sure that it is what _you_ want to do and firmly believe in. No half-measures, no namby-pamby words that you know in your heart, you do have one, you don't believe in."

The wind came from the west as I stood next to Ruth on the farm, but I was thinking about the wind under the wings of the jet that would be taking Louisa and James to Madeira, Spain.

I made my way back to Portwenn in a brown study and stopped at the singer with the cough who I'd treated so badly that morning. I properly examined him, and apologized for mistreating him and mal treating him.

"It's okay, Doc. Word gets around, you know, about you and your missus."

I was closing my bag as he said. "I was just sitting down and writing a song about it, want to hear it?"

"No," I said as it was far too odd to hear our difficulties and breakup recounted in song. I fled his cottage but from the open window heard him singing "_long dark hair, crooked little smile, she slipped away…_"

Not hardly, I thought. No slipping away when the whole village was peering down at us, making quiet comments behind our backs, shaking their heads over our problems.

Was I willing? Not able or proficient at it, but _willing_. Willing? I immediately tried to book a flight to Spain, so I _must be_ willing to change - go after her - and not sit behind in my surgery like a lost soul, which seemed to be my default position.

Ruth also told me. "And by the time you were six, because of the remoteness of your father and the coldness of you mother you had shutdown."

Shutdown seemed to be as good a word as any, for it fully described my reactions and symptoms recently. I peered down at Louisa where she lay in the hospital bed and saw her lips twitch.

The nurse stood by my side. "She is doing fine Mr. Ellingham. I'm sure she'd feel very safe if she knew you were looking after her."

Looking after her? While I had caused incalculable damage? I'd destroyed the school's sports day medal handout, and stalked off with Louisa chasing me, yelling and blowing her silly whistle. That had led to her being struck by a car. I had broken her collar bone as surely as if I'd taken a cricket bat to her. Seeing her crumpled on the road battered, bruised, broken, whimpering in pain and shock I almost wanted to lie down with her and have the vehicle back up and run me down – for I deserved it.

Then it really started. She got a blood clot in a lung and was started on warfarin. Her collar bone would heal, but… there was more damage. I'd helped her to dress in hospital and was putting her hair up in a ponytail when she told me she wanted to go away. Said she wasn't coming home, and was taking a trip to Spain. Then came the real shocker. "I'm not happy, Martin."

Louisa was changing. Portwenn was _her_ home, not mine, although I had wrestled mightily with my disdain for the backwater village. She now wanted to go to see her mother, a woman she did not like, to escape me. Now that was a change. I tried to live my life based on facts, but the facts derived from human personalities and relationships I found hard to decipher. But for her to say Portwenn, the village of her dreams, _and_ living with me, did not make her happy. Pretty clear even to me that I was at fault. Yes, Louisa had been changed – by me – and not for the better.

Right after James was born and Louisa was going to dinner with lady friends, I stayed home and watched our baby. Louisa came into my consulting room and asked, "How do I look?"

I told her that she looked nice; she always did.

She responded, "Oh?" surprised.

When was the last time I told her she looked nice, or was pretty, or was beautiful? Take note then - tell her each day she was one of those and I knew it was _true_; so very true.

But when I knew a universal truth, such as the sky is blue, water is wet, blood smells like iron and recently once more, makes me vomit, or that Louisa was beautiful, I assumed that everyone knew it. I knew she was beautiful, so why not say it? Didn't I mean it?

Change. Was I willing to change? If I had a steep mountain to climb I was certainly in the valley miles below the peak, and well into the cold shadows of the elevation. My father was now dead and improperly mourned, my rubbish mother had come begging for money and I'd just thrown her out of both my house and life, and now I was surveying the wreckage of my being, both professional and personal.

I hadn't even seemed to care that much when Aunt Joan died, instead using the proceedings at church to harangue the attendants about cardiac and dietary health. Louisa had forced me to go to the church yard later and place flowers on her grave, the new headstone bright and unblemished next to the worn stone over Uncle Phil.

Louisa held James Henry and talked to Joan and to Phil, introducing our son, which I found absurd. "You going to say anything?" she asked, the wind whipping hair about her face.

I merely ducked my head.

Louisa kissed me on the cheek at the grave. "Martin I do understand."

Did she? Did she ever understand me? Worse, did _I_ _ever_ understand _her_? What was going on in her head at the moment or this morning? When she turned to the waiting taxi I could tell she was nearly crying. On our horrific wedding night traipsing through the forest, being held at gunpoint by a mad farmer, helping me perform emergency surgery, and trekking across the moor to safety, she had not cried - not one bit. So why would she sob when she was leaving me for Spain, for a _break_, as she called it? A _break_ from me?

When Louisa tried to sit down at breakfast which she'd brought to my desk, she'd said, "Maybe you'd feel better if you talked about it." She was commenting on my sleeplessness, lack of appetite for both food and affection, and being rubbish at everything else.

"My father's died. Not much to talk about," I replied.

"He was your father and maybe it's hit you harder than you think." Then she'd talked about traveling somewhere - the three of us - spending time together.

I ungraciously rejected her offer and the food and the awful look of hurt on her face was too ghastly to recall. I gulped as I remembered it.

The nurse looked at me. "This is hard for you to see your wife as a patient."

I turned my head towards her. "Yes. Very."

She nodded.

"Uhm," I grunted, "thank you… for your concern and your help."

The nurse smiled at me. "Right. It's my job and I quite enjoy caring for people. It makes me happy to me helpful."

Happy - another word.

Mr. Porter the people-hating vicar had nailed me with that bolt as well. "Do I make _her_ happy? That should be that correct thing to ask, Doctor. That is the answer of what do I ask myself when I see her."

I'm not happy? I'm not making you happy, am I? Taking a break? I don't like anybody and nobody likes me… I sighed. There were too many things to enumerate but for one. One that I _ought_ to start working on.

One hundred percent for that one, Porter. Mighty surgeon and GP injuring and crushing the spirit of the only person, well, perhaps the prime one out of three, which I cared for on the entire planet.

A thought hit me and I don't know where it came from. "Is there a gift shop in hospital?" I asked the nurse.

"Oh yes, there is. By the main door. They have magazines, stuffed animals, flowers…"

I walked away when she was talking.

The flowers weren't expensive and the clerk looked me up and down. "Like a card?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"A gift card. You know. You write on it?" He slid a white card with across the counter. "Need a pen?"

"I… no." I took out my pen and stared at the thin guide lines on the paper.

"Looking for a word?"

"No," I snapped. I wrote what I had to – rather _felt_ and signed it.

The man attached the card to a long plastic holder and arranged it with the flowers. "There." He handed me the cut flowers in a vase. "Best of luck mate. Cheers."

I took up the vase and turned towards the door, but then looked back at him. "Uhm, thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

I waited until they had moved Louisa and got her into her new bed. "Here," I told an orderly. "Can you?" I held out the vase of flowers and my attached note.

"Right," the man said. "Pretty flowers."

I nodded and then watched from the door while a nurse plumped the pillows for Louisa, who was still very groggy. Retreating around the corner to a safe distance I pulled out my mobile. There was something I needed to do and it scared me. It scared far more than anything that had happened so far.

The operating room swam back into my memory. I hadn't been scared then – just – _concerned_.

"I think we're ready to start now," I said as I stared at her skull scan. I bent down over Louisa. "How are you feeling?"

She looked up at me from the surgical cot, her hair swathed in a pale blue surgical towel. "A bit fuzzy."

"That will be the pre-med."

"You have a _very_ large head," she said matter-of-factly.

"What?" I realized the pre-med was stripping away the filters of her higher thinking processes. Patients say all sorts of things at a time like this. I knew I had a large head and sticky-out-ears for that matter. I'd been called Dumbo as a boy, but I certainly tried not to think about it.

She laughed. "It looks like a full moon. Really… mean it. Quite _nice_ actually." She laughed. "Do you actually own any swimming trunks?"

"Beg pardon?"

"I don't mean those thong things. I mean proper, _proper_ trunks.

"I don't understand." Now she had my attention and the operating theater seemed very far away – just the two of us conversing quietly.

"I thought you were coming to Spain earlier - when I saw you on the plane. There are beaches there. And it's _hot_, _very_ hot and people wear flip-flops and everything." She shook her head. "You'd have hated it."

"I _was_ going to come to Spain."

She shook her head side to side. "Nooo. _No_."

"I didn't come after you just because of your condition. I tried to buy a ticket."

"No." Her beautiful eyes stared at mine and I felt the most vulnerable under her gaze I had ever been. Those liquid eyes of hers stripped all my caution away and I told her what I ought to have months ago.

I had to swallow and very hard. "I think… I think I need your help." My pulse was now pounding in my ears.

"If you need _my_ help to perform an operation then we're really in trouble," she tittered.

"I don't need any help with this operation. I've done it seven times before. And I've never been married before." I paused for long seconds. "I don't seem to be very good at it."

Louisa was hanging on every word. God knows how much she as comprehended, but I pressed on. "I want to learn…. because I'd like to be much better at it."

"You tell me that just before you slice my head open?" she said and I could tell she almost started to laugh.

It did seem comical in a very odd way. "I'm not going to slice anything."

"Well, whatever the technical term is."

I inhaled deeply and had to put my doctor face back on. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."

"_Hope_ so." Now her face showed concern, her silly giggles long gone. "This is serious isn't it?"

"Mm." I then stroked her face with my gloved finger and stood straight. I looked over at the anesthetist. "Let's begin."

The orderly came past me pushing the empty cot. "She's all settled in."

"Want a sandwich? Something to drink? A magazine?" I heard a soft female voice saying to her.

"No," I heard Louisa say. "Do you know if my husband's around?"

The young aide said, "No. Surgeon's gonna stop by and see you though."

I stepped around the corner.

"Talk of the devil," the aide said under her breath as she scurried away.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

Louisa smiled a little at me. "My head hurts and a bit tired but better than I expected."

I swallowed hard. "You'll probably go home later on today." The word _home_ stuck in my throat like a fish hook.

Her face grew guarded and sad. "Right."

I'd stepped in it. "I mean… you won't be flying anywhere… for a while." I gulped followed by a sigh. "I'm not saying you have to come home." I wanted her home but she'd likely ignore any overture on that score. I was walking on eggshells and I knew that making some sort of entreaty like _'give me one last chance'_ would fall on deaf ears. I'd played that card before to little effect, ultimately.

She gave me a sad look. "Martin, you know, this doesn't… doesn't change anything."

"I know," I nodded. I wanted to say that I loved her and I always will but she'd not believe me right now based on our troubles - correction _my_ troubles.

Her voice got softer. "Don't want us to just to go back and pretend that everything's fine."

"I know." More fish hooks. No Louisa, things weren't fine and they never were. I found myself fixated by her beautiful eyes, the first thing that captivated me about her the first time I saw her; eyes that I needed to be near me.

"Want to fall back into the way things were," she went on.

"Hmm." I had to stop and gulp hot saliva that filled my mouth. No Louisa they won't be the same as before - they can't be! "I agree. I don't want that either." There was no way that we could go back to the way we were. I'd been horrible to her and to James and this was awkward in the extreme. But something had to change – be different – for the better. And it couldn't get much worse.

She started slightly with a disappointed and distressed look. "Okay," she said so softly I almost couldn't hear.

What did she think I just said? Did she recall what I'd said in surgery? That I wanted to learn to be a better husband and father? Now was not the time to repeat it. "I'll let you get some sleep," I said, then turned away. I not taken more than two steps when she called me.

"Martin." Her tone was flat but there was some undercurrent to it I could not place. Something I could not discern.

"Yes?" I turned and took a step towards the bed.

"Thank kew." She smiled slightly. "For coming after me."

How to answer her? I feared to say rubbish, so I stuck to the facts. "You're my patient," I turned to go. "And," my voiced cracked, "you're my _wife_."

I left the room and walked down the way and out of the ward, past scuttling nurses and doctors, emergency signs, an AED on the wall, and oxygen cylinders. Finding a consulting alcove empty I stepped inside and pulled the curtain across. I had to stare at the wall, unmoving for some time, until I got back in control, but perhaps I ought not to have. Yet now I knew what my course ought to be. No! HAD to be!

My mobile dialed when I pushed speed dial and an aged voice answered. "Hello?"

"Ruth, this is Martin."

"Martin? Is Louisa alright?"

"She's fine."

"How are _you_ nephew? I imagine… well, I don't know quite what to imagine."

How was I? I was exhausted, nervous, but also… resolved. "Ruth - Aunt Ruth - I…"

"Yes, Martin?"

"You said once that you had a name for me."

"Oh, _that_ name."

"Uhm, a therapist."

"For you, Martin?"

Long pause. "Yes, for me."

"She's coming home then."

"I hope so."

"Good. Now got a pen? Dr. Helen Entwhistle. Here's the number…" she read it out. "I warn you… she's actually semi-retired. Lives not that far outside of Bodmin actually."

"Appropriate," I muttered. "Older?"

"No. She… well, I'll let you find out, won't I?"

"Ruth…" an announcement was made overhead and I stopped while it went on. When the garbled words stopped I said, "Ruth… I do want… help."

"Good, Martin. See? You're making progress already. Call Helen."

I cut her off. "I will."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Martin, I am sorry. I should have stepped in sooner. And by the way I understand that Margaret has left."

"Yes, she's gone." Another silence while I twiddled my pen nervously. "Permanently. Anything else?"

"Glad that witch is gone at last. Not too soon to see the back of her. When's Louisa coming home?"

"This evening," I said. "Back to the house."

"Oh?"

"Or I might move out, if she wants that."

"What about James? He'll need looking after. Louisa will be convalescent, at least for a few days. I'll help when I can."

"Yesss…" I sighed. "I'll call this Entwhistle woman."

A long silence. "Martin?"

"Yes?"

"Good – good for you. Goodbye now. Call when you want Al to come."

I held my mobile, now warmed by my hand, the metal case smooth and polished by the makers. It reminded me of the wedding band I put onto Louisa's finger. Our wedding was brilliant… God I was nervous… afraid she would not be there. That she'd get cold feet once more. But when I went to the back of the church and saw her, the sun came out.

I pressed the number buttons and then call send. The ringer on the other end buzzed three times.

"Hello?" A young woman's voice answered.

"Uhm…" my throat went dry and my glottis locked.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

I took a deep breath. "This is Doctor Ellingham. My aunt is Ruth Ellingham and I… I wish to speak to Dr. Entwhistle, if that is possible."

"Yes. Ruth called me just an hour ago. Said you'd be calling."

That surprised me. "You're not the… uhm, receptionist then."

She laughed. "No. I'm Helen Entwhistle. Dr. Ellingham, what can I do for you?"

That was the question. _The_ question – the question of my life. I stood on an island, an island made by me. I was isolated and separate from all the rest of the world and it was how I wished to be; had to be - how I needed to be, until... until I saw this woman on a plane.

Words would not come forth until I coughed and said. "I need your help."

"Okay," Entwhistle said and I could almost hear a smile as she said it. "Tell me more."


	8. Chapter 8

**The characters, places and situations of **_**Doc Martin,**_** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

"Where are you?" Entwhistle asked.

"I'm at hospital in Truro and…" my voice failed.

"Are you in danger? Ought I to be concerned about your safety?"

"No," I cleared my throat. "Nothing like that. I'm fine. My wife has had surgery to embolize an AVM this afternoon and I am waiting for her discharge, which should be in a few hours."

Entwhistle said, "I see. So you have time."

"Time?"

"Time to speak - to come see me."

The A/C clicked on overhead and the cold blast made me shiver. "You want me to come to you."

"I can't travel just at the moment," she said. "Ruth said that she suspected you would be in distress, yet… you don't _sound_ like you are. So tell me Dr. Ellingham, are you? Is this an emergent condition? Why have you called just now?"

"I…" I had to stop. See her now? "Perhaps we ought to just speak on the phone."

"Hm… we could, but I need to see you and you need to see me, eventually. You asked for help. Then come to me. Now. My home is just north of Roche, not quite to Bodmin."

"I… my car is damaged." And out in Portwenn I might add.

"There are taxis you know. Pretty simple. Have them take the A30 past Roche, then the A389. Go North. My house is on Kernow Farm Lane outside of Willowbrook. Here's the postcode." She rattled it off. "You could get up here in 20 minutes. I could have someone take you back when we are finished."

I sighed. What could I say? I turned the corner and went down the hall to Louisa. She was sleeping once more, which is typical after the procedure. Would she remember what I told her? I retreated to my hidey-hole. "And the object of this would be?"

She laughed. "Doctor, you called me. What do _you_ want?"

I sighed. What did I want? "Fine. I'll be there in a half hour." I snapped the phone closed. It was the work of a moment to speak to Westmore, tell him I would be gone for perhaps an hour and a half.

The man looked at me warily. "I… so you're leaving her in my care."

"Yes. You should be perfectly capable of monitoring…" I stopped myself. "Technically Mrs. Ellingham is your patient."

He lowered his voice. "How do I write up her notes? When _you_… operated."

"When I return, I'll find you and … discuss the, uhm, her case."

The man actually smiled grimly. "You know," he whispered, "I would like you to go over the procedure with me, I…" he sighed. "Not making a very good impression, am I?"

I wondered how he ever passed school. "Mr. Westmore, if you do not have the confidence or skills needed to carry out the operation, perhaps you ought to go into a different line of work," I hissed.

"But I want to learn how to do that," his chin quivered. "Look, it's just it was your bloody wife! If you were working on the big chief's loved one wouldn't you be nervous?"

Want to learn. He almost echoed what I told Louisa and I took some modicum of pity on him. "Yes. I would." I checked my watch. "I… need to go. If there is…" I pressed my business card on him. "Call."

"Righto, Chief." He actually smiled. "I'd likely have made a hash of it anyway."

I had turned to go when he said that. "You'd have been fine," I said. "I mean that." I went to the nearest exit and found the taxi stand.

"To Bodmin?" the taxi driver spat out. "Hell of a ways." The queue was down to two taxis and the driver at the front was balking.

I opened my wallet and took out a fifty. "Good enough?"

The man's eyes bugged out. "Right. Let's get to it."

Fortunately he wasn't the chatty sort for I was not in the mood. In short order we'd swept out of the borough of Truro and soon blew through Roche. The driver hooked a thumb at Roche Rock with the ruined chapel built atop it. "I hear tell it's haunted up there."

"Unlikely," I scoffed.

"There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio…"

"Yeah," I grunted back. "Sure."

The driver peered back at me in his rearview. "Look, mate, I drive a bloody taxi, but that doesn't mean I don't read Shakespeare."

"_Then are dreamt of in your philosophy_. I know it."

We went another mile or so past the turn to Willowbrook then his satnav started beeping at him. "Here we are." The car crunched over a gravel drive and stopped in front of a modern renovation of a rustic farmhouse. "Kernow Farm Lane." He looked at the meter. "This far out… well, I have to use this special card…"

I handed him the fifty Pound note. "No. Take the lot. No more."

"Right." He snapped up the money and scanned the area. "Kinda desolate out here. Who would want to live here? You're sure this is the spot?" The lane was in a broad valley dotted with rocks and gorse. A few scattered and worn down stone walls completed the scene far in the distance. "Creepy."

I climbed from the car and it backed away before I could give him an answer. I went up to the front door and pressed the bell, noting the larger than average width of the door. After a few seconds I pressed the bell again.

A muffled voice called. "Come in!"

I entered the house and closed the door, finding a rather modern looking entry.

"Dr. Ellingham?" The voice I had heard on the phone called again. "I'm in the front room."

I walked around the corner and there she sat in an expensive looking wheelchair. Her right leg was gone a few centimeters below her knee. Her left leg appeared to be intact, but looked diminished. She was blonde and young but dressed neatly as she stared brightly at me.

"Ah," I recovered my composure. "Dr. Entwhistle." She looked to be about forty, but her condition may have colored my thinking.

"Come in. Have a seat." She held out her right hand and I noticed the pink scars roped across the palm and back.

I shook hands with her and although scarred, her grip was fairly firm. ""You're the one my aunt Ruth sent me to."

Her face, framed by blonde hair smiled. "Not quite what you expected." She had blue eyes and they gleamed impishly. "Sorry about dragging you out here. Back of beyond."

"I know about the back of beyond. I live there," I sniffed.

"Take off your coat, grab that chair and bring it over. Let's get to know one another."

I did as she asked, at least sat on the wooden chair. The coat I kept buttoned.

She inspected me with a cocked head. "So you're Ruth's nephew." She smoothed a wrinkle on the short trousers she wore then inspected her nails. "Heard about you a few times when we worked together at Broadmoor."

"I suppose you might have."

She laughed. "You look a bit like her – tall – plain."

"Mm." I sighed. "You asked and I came. Let's get on with it."

"I asked?" she chuckled but then her voice changed. "No, Dr. Ellingham, _you_ asked. You said 'I need your help'."

I sighed. "Look – this psychiatric mumbo-jumbo is…"

"Mysterious? Strange? Voodoo?"

"Yes." I wrinkled my nose.

"In an earlier age we'd both have been burned at the stake, Doctor, or hung from a gibbet. So please don't run down what I do. Right? Your magical potions as a GOP would be seen as the work of a witch not three hundred years ago."

I nodded and flashed back to the events of today. "Sorry. I'm… I've been… under stress."

"Yes. I can tell. Those eyes haven't gotten a lot of sleep lately have they?"

"Uhm, no."

She stared at me again. "Either your shirts have mysteriously grown larger or you have lost weight."

"True."

"So, stress." She turned her chair (I noticed her left hand was equally scarred and both pinkie and ring finger ended at the distal knuckle), pushing the hand rungs on the wheels. She rolled to a table and came back with a pad and pen. "I'll make some notes."

She asked me the usual age, weight, height, address, all that. "Education?"

"Holt Academy for uni, Kings Hospital for med and Imperial College for surgical training, two years at Southampton for vascular work, then back to Imperial as consultant, then as head of department – Vascular."

She nodded, her longish hair bobbing over her face. "I see. And now?"

"I… it was not possible for me to continue as a surgeon so I retrained as a GP and got the post at Portwenn. Been there nearly four years."

"Not possible?"

"Yes."

"More."

"Look," I bristled, "if you're going to…" I stopped myself and sighed. "I developed panic attacks at the sight of blood – with attendant vomiting, sometimes fainting." I waved my hand. "That sort of thing. Haemophobia."

She touched the pad with her pen. "Inconvenient for a vascular surgeon."

"A good way to put it."

"Or a GP."

I tugged at my tie which was now too tight. "At times."

"However do you manage?" She leaned forward. "Must be rough."

"How do you manage?" I blurted out.

She smiled a little then it faded. "Okay. Martin, may I call you Martin?"

I nodded.

"Here's the horror show in one go. I was in an auto accident. Two lane road, Richard was driving. Bright day, sunny. A lorry coming the other way came over the line." She looked to the window. "You can see the result."

"Who's Richard?"

She grinned again for a moment. "My fiancé – Richard Loomis. Barrister, brilliant man, this is his getaway home."

I asked for I had to. "What happened to him?"

"Oh, he died. Right there."

"I'm… sorry."

Helen looked back at me. "So I manage, just. Like you." She sighed. "As for me, the leg, gone in the crash, crushed pelvis, some burns, nerve damage in my left leg - from the pelvis damage – any number of internal injuries. Lost my spleen and a lobe of my liver."

"You could have died, but you didn't." I had to blink rapidly as my eyes had gone extra wet.

She wheeled herself to me and looked deep into my eyes. "I can see that you have been there. Martin, we're both broken playthings. I lost Richard in a flash. Never got to…"

"Say goodbye." I thought of my Aunt Joan dying alone of an MI her truck crashed in a gorse bush on the moor.

"Yes," she sighed. "But worse. We were to be married the next weekend. So he's gone, doubtful I'll ever walk to the altar now…" she laughed sardonically, "Unless I can roll myself up to it."

"You're bitter!" I stood. "How can _you_ help _me_?"

She looked up. "No, not bitter, Martin, just wistful. What might have been? That's what eats at you as well, I imagine. What might have been?"

I turned to the door. "No."

"Well then, what is it? People don't just call out _'help me'_ unless they mean it, especially not a GP cum surgeon such as you. And Ruth told me you are a very good doctor."

I stopped, my shoulders falling. She was right. I was dancing around the issue, well many issues. I heard her chair come up behind me.

"Martin, I have to know if I am to help you. Ruth told me…"

I slowly turned to face her. "Told you what exactly?"

She shook her head. "No, _you_ tell _me_."

I sighed. "Life isn't fair."

"Nothing ever is."

I looked down at the wreckage of her body. She sat up straight and tall, her pretty face unlined from the horror of what she had gone through. What would it feel like to be crushed, broken, and bereft all at once? Was I not just as broken?

If an artery was torn and bleeding I'd staunch the flow and stitch it up, like that mad farmer on the moor on our wedding night. I'd carried through, had to, could not give up, not when I could help the man. Now I was the one bleeding out, just at a much slower rate, and I could not fix it myself.

I felt my heart speed up. "Louisa… my wife." I had to stop.

"Go on."

"She was leaving me." Now my pulse was pounding.

Helen Entwhistle smiled. "Good. Go on."

"Taking our son to Spain."

Helen backed up and pointed to the wooden chair. "Come on; have seat"

I sat back down and tried to still my shaking body. "This may take some time."

She nodded. "I know. It always does. Go on."


	9. Chapter 9

**The characters, places and situations of ****_Doc Martin,_**** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

"Then what happened?" Entwhistle asked.

I'd just tried to fill her in, a bare bones summary, of the last few months. "At the same time our child minder, Mike Pruddy, began to rearrange our kitchen and sitting room on a daily basis, the uhm… my haemophobia returned. He couldn't help his actions; the man has raging OCD."

"Anything else of note?"

"My mum arrived – Margaret – from Spain with news that my father had died."

She leaned back. "Care for tea? I could use some." In a second she'd whirled her chair about and left the room.

I pursed my lips at her abrupt departure. Just as well, I thought, as I needed a break. Entwhistle was poking and prodding and it was… bothersome. I felt like a specimen of my long turned to dust butterfly collection stuck with pins and tacked to a board. Butterflies; I'd not thought of those in a very long while. That brought back other memories which I quickly clamped down on.

I heard the hum of a hum of a microwave oven, the tinkle of mugs and spoons and in another minute or three she came out with a loaded tray clamped to her chair arms. I leaped up to take it from her.

"Don't you dare," she said avoiding my outstretched hands. "Sit." She expertly maneuvered herself to a table and detached the tray.

I slowly sat while she poured from the kettle. "One sugar? Milk?"

"Fine." I took the mug she handed me but I started as the handle clicked against my wedding ring.

"Problem?" she asked.

I switched the mug to my other hand and put the left in my lap. "No."

She sipped at her tea. "Why did you jump when the mug hit your wedding ring?"

"What an odd question," I bristled.

"Not really." She blew on her steaming mug of tea. "I don't care how hot it gets out I do like tea. Another very sunny day out."

I peered at my watch in irritation for I didn't come here to talk about the weather. "How long will this go on?"

She smiled. "Don't know. A while."

I put the mug on a low table and looked straight at her. "So how will this help me?'

"Your father died. How did you feel about that?"

"He's dead. Not much to feel about it. People are born and they die. Biology."

"And he'd just died?"

"Two months ago. Apparently my mother neglected to let me know when it happened."

Helen put her tea aside, picked up pen and pad and made a note. "I see."

"See what? You keep saying _'I see'_ like a nostrum - some sort of solution! What do you mean by that?" My words had an edge which I felt keenly. "Damn." I saw her critical eye. "Uhm, didn't mean to ..."

"You have every right, Martin. Patients can say or do _anything_ here – this is a safe place. Just don't throw the crockery or assault me, is all I ask."

I wrinkled my nose. "You're _very_ calm, like my aunt."

She smiled. "Ooh, sarcasm. Professional calm, I assure you. I've got all sorts of ideas about our meeting."

"Oh?" I said harshly. "Let me guess – rude and arrogant doctor is upset at the world as he can no longer be a surgeon and has been lashing out at everyone and everything because of it!" I shouted. "Therefore he is inflicting his despair upon his wife – thereby driving her away!"

Helen Entwhistle picked up her tea and drank. "Perhaps. But I'd not give you high marks for that. Too obvious."

"Oh? Listen, Doctor, when I see a patient in my consulting room I make medical tests and exams, combine those facts with my observations, medical knowledge, and make a diagnosis." I crossed my arms and glared at her. "How do you do it?"

She sighed, went to the window for a minute then turned to me. "You want to know?"

"If I was fighting a disease I would want to know, yes!"

She nodded. "Fair enough. You told me you got over the haemophobia before."

"Yes. I used visualization techniques to suppress feelings of nausea and panic."

"But it came back."

"Yes. With a vengeance."

"Why?"

"I don't bloody know!" I shouted. "If I knew that…" My words rang in the room.

Helen cocked her head. "Good question to have answered, don't you think?"

"Likely."

"Ruth mentioned… about your parents. They were prickly - didn't get on."

"That's one way to put it. We didn't speak for _years_."

Helen lowered her pen. "Why's that?"

I took a deep breath and took the plunge. "When I was five I was sent off to school, a long commute with bus and taxi each way. So at an early age I was made to act like an adult. At public school, I was bullied and was a bed-wetter. My mum and dad seemed not to care too much what happened to me. When I became a surgeon, my father actually seemed to be proud of me, but my mum had her usual disinterest. I was sent here for a few years on school holidays to my aunt's farm - that was Aunt Joan. When I had to become a GP, my father arrived for a visit and if not belittling me for my lowered state, was chatting up the locals - all of whom thought how perfect he was. Then I found out he'd only come to extract money from the farm which my Aunt Joan was struggling to run."

"Ah," she said.

"And," I went on, "my mum revealed that I was an _accident_. She didn't want me _before_ or _after_ my birth and did _everything_ she could to keep me far away from her - claiming it was my birth which made my dad chase other women."

Entwhistle tapped her teeth with her pen. "Martin, how were you treated at home? And how were you punished? And you must have been; all children are from time to time."

I stopped for long seconds. "Yes, I was punished. A belt or a swat with a table tennis racket from my dad. Mum…" I choked.

"Martin, is this too painful? And what did you do that made punishments happen?"

"Bad things."

"Bad things - let's come back to that." She sipped tea and said. "How did your mother punish you?"

I knew where she was going and I dreaded it. "She'd lock me in the cupboard under the stairs."

"What for?"

"Making a mess, being noisy or talking too much, being… acting like a child if you must know."

She looked me straight in the eye. "Martin, yes, I _must_ know."

"Not much fun," I said.

"Did you have friends in school or at home?"

There was a quick answer to that. "No."

"And you are bright, you must be, given your education and gene pool. Your aunt is sharp as a whip."

I nodded. "Intelligence above average."

"And I imagine part of the punishments were for being too smart; too chatty or inquisitive."

My mind rushed back and I nodded fearing what she'd say. "Yes." The broken capture jar with a crushed butterfly shone in my head like it was yesterday.

"Were you neglected?"

"I was always well fed and clothed. Schooling was the best that could be afforded."

"More to _neglect_, Martin, then a lack of food and clothes." She wrote on her pad. "Where's your mother now?"

"I discovered that had she had come to see me for _money_. Nothing else. I told her to leave and I never wanted to see her again. And I shall not."

"So no hugs or kisses from her." Helen nodded slowly. "Or for him. Under the stair was a punishment."

"Yes."

"Must have been uncomfortable."

"Solitude."

"So you were a small boy, locked under the stair. In the dark?"

I nodded.

"And it was scary," she commented.

"Not always. I learned to hide a small flashlight and a book under there."

"How old were you - the flashlight bit?"

"Oh, about four."

"Do you like being alone?"

"See here!" I yelled. "Now you're going to say that by getting _married_ and _having a child_ I am _no longer alone_ and therefore _I long to be alone_? Thereby driving my wife away so I can BE alone?!"

Helen smiled grimly. "No. I'm not saying that. But you just did."

The idea shocked me. "No… no… can't be. That's wrong," I said weakly.

"I agree, Martin," she replied. "It _is_ wrong. That's why we must talk about these things."

I shook my head side-to-side. "You're mad."

She chuckled. "I may be. Or if I am mad I have managed to bend my madness so I can be useful. You know how that is done. You're the _surgeon_ who has _haemophobia_. You know very well how to change your reactions to stimuli."

There was some truth behind her words but I was taken aback by what she said next.

"Martin, we all adapt to new situations and conditions. That is the way of intelligent life, whether here or elsewhere in the Universe. When the environment does not suit us we must either change the environment or change our behavior. Having a wife and a young son is a change - a _huge_ one. Why do you think your haemophobia came back?"

"Stress."

"Yes stress. Living alone you had your own routines of work, eating, sleeping, and hobbies. You have hobbies?"

"I repair clocks."

She made a note. "Sounds like a handy thing to do - right in line with being a surgeon - fine motor skills. So you had a regular routine. Then this woman, Louisa, comes into your life. Then you get married and have a child."

"No, we were engaged and we didn't get married, she moved to London, and she was pregnant - by me - didn't know."

"That must have been a shock. All of it."

"You have no idea. She moved back to Portwenn, had the baby, and we moved in together. Only later did we marry. Our relationship has been - disordered."

"I'll bet. How old is your son?"

"He's nine months old."

"Do you play with him? Toys, books, baby noises? Piggy-back rides?"

"I… I read to him." I dared not tell her it was medical journals.

"How frequently are you and your wife intimate?"

"That's…"

"It's important, Martin. How close are you?" She wrote more notes. "If I am to treat you I will likely wish to speak to your wife as well. Why did she go away?"

"She… she… said she needed a change. Which was strange as Portwenn is her village; she grew up there. As for the other thing…" I gulped once more. "Not that recently have we been… together."

"But _she_ left. I definitely will need to see her."

"But… I'm the one with the… erh, problem."

Helen smiled. "No Martin. We all have problems. What book did you read under the stair?"

"_Hillary on Everest_ and some of the Dan Dare comic books."

"Escapism. Rather advanced for a young child."

"I was reading when I was three."

Helene Entwhistle put down her pen and wheeled herself to my side. "Martin I _do_ have an opinion - a medical one."

"What is it? Spit it out!" I was almost afraid of what balderdash she'd blather out.

"You asked and I _will_ tell you now. I may be wrong, but I don't think so."

Ruth thought much of this young woman and my aunt was no fool. I gulped. "Go on."

She sighed. "Martin, you're back under the stairs."

"What?"

She reached out and touched my hand. "And you're the one, _this_ _time_, who put yourself under there."


	10. Chapter 10

**The characters, places and situations of ****_Doc Martin,_**** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

Helen looked at me calmly after delivering her bombshell. "Just think about it."

"Absurd!" I yelled. "That's insane!"

She sighed. "Typical reaction, as I expected. The usual thing patients say," she said. "Just think about it. I don't mean physically - mentally."

My head throbbed as I considered it further. "I have been, ahm, standoffish."

She nodded. "And does this relate to your sense of isolation, depression, greater than usual rudeness as you admit, a lack of sleep, not eating regularly as you claim you are not hungry, and avoiding sexual contact with your wife?"

"So… why the haemophobia again? That doesn't fit."

"You told me you suffered panic attacks at the sight of blood when in surgery. That lead to your leaving that profession. Now as a GP, while blood may not be the usual thing you see…"

"You'd be surprised," I huffed.

"Right. You just told me you suffered a return of the condition - vomiting and so forth. When your mind is under stress you fall back on the basic mechanisms that you have used before to defend yourself from things that are upsetting. Fainting is one example, usually tied in with a vomit response, or becoming jittery or shaky. That is your mind's way of making you back away from situations that are upsetting."

I stared at her my mind whirling. "I first suffered haemophobia when I realized that my patient was not just a surgical problem. She was a woman - a real live flesh and blood woman - with a family and friends. For the first time the pathos hit me. What if I made a mistake? What if I slipped up? She might die and her family would be grieving because of a slip of the knife. _My_ knife."

"And being a GP is different how?"

"No surgery, at least only emergency issues," I told her thinking of Peter Cronk and Louisa's mum.

Entwhistle cracked her knuckles and spread her hands out wide. "Martin, as a village doctor, there must be any number of times that you are treating conditions that could be life threatening far beyond runny noses and lurky."

I sighed. "I do have a fair number of diabetics, heart patients…"

"See?" she said. "So I'm not far wrong."

"And how then does that bring back my reactions to blood?"

She smiled. "Martin, you told me that you had no friends as a child. Ruth strikes me as much the same. Rather _aloof_."

"That's a loaded word. But we Ellinghams tend to be… remote."

"But you can't be isolated all the time. Surely there are people, not patients, you care about? Beyond your family, that is."

I thought about Bert, Al, Morwenna, that fool Penhale, Louisa's mum, Pippa the teacher… there wasn't a one I actually care for. Even Stewart James the bodmin Ranger I could engage on the intellectual level, but for anything else, no.

Fenn was one that I felt the closest to, although what I called close would be different from anyone else. "I see people; every day."

"Yes, but in small village you would. When's the last time you actually sat down to have a nice chat with someone?"

"Ahm, this morning."

"Who was that?"

"My aunt."

"And you spoke of the weather, no doubt?"

Now I felt trapped. "No! We discussed my," my hand waved about, "things."

Entwhistle looked down at her pad and made another note. "Ruth told me you spoke about relationships. About you and your wife."

I groaned. "We did." I checked my watch. "I ought to get back to Truro. My wife will likely be discharged soon."

"Yes… tell me about _Louisa_. How did you meet?"

"On a plane. I was flying to Newquay for the interview for the GP post."

"What was that like? The first time you saw her? What was it that struck you about her? Made you notice her?"

That was easy. "Her eyes."

"Limpid pools of blue?"

"Greyish-blue. And the right eye, uhm, _her_ right eye, looked different. I diagnosed glaucoma in that eye."

"Anything else about her, other than the eye?"

I sighed. "She had long dark hair and she wore it down. Sometimes she wears it in a ponytail, or piled on the top of her head." I replayed the scene. "She wore a scarf about her neck."

Helen pawed at her shorter blonde locks. "I've been growing my hair out."

"I noticed."

"How'd you know that?"

"The ends of your hair are different lengths. Hair grows roughly one millimeter per day, on average,. The ends of your hair are uneven and some of the ends look frizzed, split. That means that you have not had a haircut for some time and that you should change your hair conditioner."

She put down her pen and smiled. "Ruth said you were observant."

"Why don't you wear a prosthesis? There are any number of excellent below-the-knee limbs available."

She held up her hand and I shut up. "I'm just recovering from stump reshaping."

Reshaping – a nice word for the surgical trimming of an amputation site so the artificial limb fits better. "How long?"

"Eight weeks," she grunted. "Don't let's talk about me." I saw her glance down at her right leg where a surgical stocking covered what was left.

"And you should be moving about on hand crutches and your remaining leg rather than wheeling about in the chair. If you allow your left leg to become unusable through muscle wasting, you'll never regain the use of it. Good exercise for your arms, neck, and back as well."

She laughed harshly. "Now you sound like my physiotherapist and my counselor."

"Well, they are right." I looked around the neatly finished room furnished in modern appointments with pieces of modern art on high shelves. I could not see a speck of dust anywhere on the black shelves. "You must have help keeping house."

"One of the village women comes in," she said as she chewed on her Biro.

"Stop that!" I said and ripped the instrument from her hand. "You'll damage your teeth."

Helen's eyes had gone wide. "Okay," she said slowly. "Now… back to Louisa. I understand she is your head teacher in the village."

I gave her back the pen. "Yes and a quite good one. The school is small but she runs it well." I neglected to say that any number of times I had to run over there to see sick children. Everything from a pencil in the head to lice and licking floors. "Ahm, but you know how schools can be."

She sighed. "Tell me more."

"The school…"

"No. Don't dodge the question."

"Oh… Louisa Glasson is intelligent and is the product of a broken home. Her father Terry is a small time and part time crook and con man, now serving time in prison for an attempted robbery and possessing smuggled explosives. Her mother, Eleanor, left the family when Louisa was eleven and ran off to Andalusia with her Spanish lover; a man I now understand to be dead."

"So her parents were crap," she sniffed. "But Louisa…"

"Essentially raised herself, I hear. The villagers helped out when they could, food, clothes, that sort of thing. My Aunt Joan was one of those who aided her."

Helen made a note. "Aunt Joan, who died."

"Of a myocardial infarction on the moor. It was the day our son was born and Joan was driving herself to hospital. She was seventy-one."

"I'm sorry," she said.

I found my eyes suddenly trickling tears. I swiftly whipped out a handkerchief and wiped them.

Helen held out a box of tissues.

"No," I said. "Louisa… ahem," the scene in surgery as she looked up at me saying 'This is serious isn't it?' came to mind. "She…"

"Take your time."

"Do you know that not two hours ago I actually operated on her? Louisa?"

"What? You said she had an AVM? You?"

I nodded and now tears were really flowing. "_I_ was the surgeon. That _fool_ Westmore would have damaged her! Might have _killed_ _her_ poking the probe through the vessel wall causing a massive bleed!"

Helen put down her pen. "How did that make _you_ feel? Doing the operation?"

I sighed and stared at the floor for long moments.

"This Westmore person, wasn't fit?"

"No. A _fool_. He was flustered as I questioned him about the procedure ahead of time. So _I_ took over." No need to tell her all the details.

"So you operated on your own wife."

"Yes! I just said that! Must you echo all I say?"

"Active listening, Martin. It makes the patient more connected to me if I am engaged with them."

"You must be a riot at dinner parties," I sniffed as I wiped my face. "Yes, I operated on _MY WIFE_!"

Helen stared at me with concern while my words echoed off the white-painted walls. The words died away and she asked. "Again. Tell me again how that made you feel."

"Rotten. Miserable. Like I was cutting myself open."

Helen sighed and I looked up to see her smiling.

"Why in the _bloody hell_ are you smiling?" I shouted.

She smiled even more. "You tell me."

I sighed and stared hard at her. "I love her you know."

Helen nodded and made a note. "Good. Glad to hear you say that. First time you've said that."


	11. Chapter 11

**The characters, places and situations of ****_Doc Martin,_**** are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.**

**Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.**

**WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…**

"I do," I said. "Love her."

"Why is it hard for you to say it? The L-word?"

I sighed. "Not hard, just not…"

"Customary?" She cleared her throat. "Martin every woman needs to hear that and every man as well."

I closed my eyes. "Yes. I know. I'd decided to say that more often."

Helen laughed. "Well don't overdo it or she'll think you not being sincere."

"That's the problem with people. The rubbish that they say gets in the way of things they should be saying."

"I can see that we'll be talking about that a lot. When was the first time you told her you loved her?"

"Must I?" I asked cautiously. "Not habituated to talking about those sorts of things, especially to a stranger."

Helen leaned forward. "Hardly a stranger, given what we've been talking about. So the first time and the most recent."

"Oh God! Now you've gone too far." I sprang up and shot my cuffs. "No."

"The first time Richard told me we were on a picnic. The last…" she stopped and sniffed. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" She turned her chair and was gone.

I watched her back as she went down the hall and I heard a door open and close, almost slam shut. Water ran somewhere and I heard a muffled rhythmic sound. It got louder and louder so I went to investigate.

The door from behind which the sound emanated was thick but I clearly heard her weeping. I flashed back to the thru-the-bathroom-door brief conversation this morning. I tapped on the panel and the thudding stopped. "Doctor, uhm, Entwhistle?"

"Go away," I clearly heard in a thick voice.

I grabbed the knob and turned it, pulling the door open, the hinges having been reversed so it swung outward. Entwhistle was standing at the sink, holding on for dear life to the fixture, the medicine chest door in her other hand which she clearly had been banging repeatedly. There was a huge spill of pill bottles in the sink and on the counter. More had fallen from the shelves and littered the floor.

"Get out!" she shouted her face filled with fire.

"What are you doing?"

She sat heavily down in the chair and grabbed at a pill bottle from the pile, hiding it from me.

"What you got there?"

"None of your business!" Her face was wet with tears. "Get out!"

"No." I grabbed at her hand and pried the bottle from her. The label was what I guessed. "Tranquilizers."

She took the bottle back and fumbled at the cap. "Get out, Martin. Get out. Let me alone."

I sighed. "Physician heal thyself. Does it work?"

"Not as cheap as alcohol and no." She tipped two tablets into her hand and stared at them like they were the Holy Grail.

"Make it all go away? That it? And I saw you stand, so you can."

She was riveted on the pills for a minute while I watched, then I squatted down and looked up at her face. "You don't have to do this."

She wiped at her wet eyes. "Richard was wonderful."

"I'm sure he was." I put my large hand on hers, covering the pills.

She looked at the wall and her hand squirmed under my fingers but I kept the pills in my grasp. "This what you want to do? Drug yourself and make it all go away? Make things perfect, would it?"

She sighed deeply. "When the lorry hit us, the engine ended up in our laps, mostly on Richard's side." Helen pushed my hand off hers and she held the pills out like a precious gem. "I felt something wet running down my arm. It was later… I found out… what it was."

I stood and watched while she fingered the pills in her palm. Finally she looked up at me. "Why is it so bloody hard?"

I shook my head. "It always is."

Helen looked at me long and hard. "Yes, it is." She held out her hand, the one with the pills clutched in it. "Here."

She dropped them into my hand and somehow I knew she'd be fine. "Right." I reached for the bottle and she handed those over as well. "Will you come out into the other room? Is there someone who can stay with you, after I leave?"

She nodded dumbly. "Fat lot of help I've been."

"No. No, you have been… useful."

Helen wiped at her face. "I'm a mess."

"Aren't we all?" I straightened a crick in my back. "I was at a music venue, outdoors, with Louisa and she put a small yellow flower into my lapel."

"That when you first told her you loved her?"

"No," I sighed. "I was drunk on wine. At the music, erh, thing, I made a mess of it."

She grimaced. "Oh." Helen wheeled herself forward and I backed away into the hall.

I didn't understand her interest in our history at all. "You need help?"

She wheeled herself ahead. "No," she ducked her head. "I just need something in my room."

I watched as she went down the hall and into the end room. She threw out over her shoulder, "I'll just leave the door open, so you don't worry."

"Fine." I went back to the front room. I dithered over my now cold tea until I heard a heavy noise coming down the corridor.

"You all right?" I called, standing up.

The heavy noise continued, but Helen appeared, standing on her foot, arms braced on hand crutches. "Sorry it took me so long," she gasped. "I had the devil of a time getting my brace on my leg."

I swung the chair I had used towards her while inspecting the carbon fiver and Velcro straps about her knee, which braced her limb.

"No…" she gasped. "Let me take a few more steps…" She stayed quite still on her foot, then swung her crutches together in unison ten or twelve inches, then moved her leg forward, swinging to and fro. "Moving like a damn tripod," she grunted. By degrees she made her way into the room.

I watched carefully while she made her way, the immense effort causing sweat to form under her arms and on her neck and face.

"Doing fine," she panted. She got to the chair and plopped down. "There. God." She dropped the crutches to the floor and they clattered loudly.

"Why did you find it necessary to show off?"

Helen laughed. "I didn't do it for you, Martin."

"Oh?"

She bit her lip and it reminded me of Louisa. "I did it for me."

"I… see."

Helen smiled. "Now," she picked up her pad and pen. "When was the most recent time you told Louisa you loved her?"

I glanced at my watch. "Look. I ought to get back."

She pulled a mobile from the pocket of the vest she wore. "Hello? Helen here. Do you think you can run a guest of mine back to Truro Hospital? Good. Oh?" she glanced my way. "Another five minutes? Right." She flipped the phone closed. "Why was she leaving? Your wife."

"Said she needed a break; a break from me."

"Now why was that? You tell me what was going on, or not."

"Uhm I believe it started when I got my clock out – the one I was working on. I'd thought of using the kitchen table, but we eat there, so I was at my desk in my office. The clock had been my grandfather's." I sighed. "Louisa came in and I was working on it. I tried to explain…" I had to stop. "No. That's wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"I tried to explain what I was doing to Louisa, but she wasn't interested, or so I thought. But… no, I was the one who had retreated. Why didn't I work on the clock in the kitchen? Or bring an extra table down from the spare room?"

Helen leaned forward. "Good question. When was this?"

"Our two week anniversary. Damn. I was withdrawing already wasn't I?" I wrung my hands together.

Helen smiled just as a horn honked outdoors. "You didn't answer my question. When was the most recent time you actually told Louisa you loved her?"

I stood up and smiled. "Oh not long ago." I eyed her warily and the auto horn blew once more. "I should go. Will you be okay?"

Helen nodded. "I'll be calling my counselor straight away. Thank you Martin."

"Uhm, okay." I cleared my throat. "I suspect you will want to meet again."

"Yes," she smiled and poked at her mobile. "How about in two days? That work?"

"I don't know… may I call you? Have to check my schedule, arrange for care for Louisa and our son."

She nodded. "You have my number." Helen picked up her crutches, got them set on her arms and I watched with some amazement as she got her half-stiff leg in front of her then she levered herself upright.

"You are strong," I told her.

"Yes; strong enough. Like you, Doctor Ellingham."

"I'll call you when I can inspect my calendar, Doctor Entwhistle."

"Fine."

I looked at her and thought that she was quite different than I imagined. She tossed her hair. "No haircut," I said.

She laughed. "Not yet."

I went to the door and Helen slowly followed. I opened it. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye Martin. I'll be expecting your call."

"Right," I said. "Sure you'll be fine?"

Her blonde head nodded. "I'll try to be; just like you."

I closed the door behind me, went to the Vauxhall on the drive and climbed in, thinking that Aunt Ruth had sent me to someone who might actually understand.


End file.
